


In the Dead of Winter

by Beleriandings



Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-09-22
Updated: 2013-09-22
Packaged: 2017-12-27 08:49:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,389
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/976818
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Beleriandings/pseuds/Beleriandings
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"They came at unawares in the middle of winter, and fought with Dior in the Thousand Caves, and thus befell the second slaying of Elf by Elf."</p>
            </blockquote>





	In the Dead of Winter

“My Lord!”

Dior looked up at the messenger of the march wardens who had burst into the great hall, still dressed in heavy winter furs dusted with snow.

“The Sons of Fëanor have come to claim the Silmaril. There is fighting on the Marches, but we can’t hold them off. Menegroth will be under attack within the hour.”

For a moment there was dead silence in the hall.

Then suddenly everyone was speaking, and Dior was standing, shouting orders. Celeborn glanced nervously at Galadriel beside him. Her face was grim.

Things happened very quickly after that. People were running, fetching armour and weapons, barricading the doors. Orders were given to get the children out. There was a back way, they said, and surely the attackers would not know, they could escape into the forest… even to Celeborn it sounded like a tenuous hope to cling to. Little Elwing clutched her mother’s hand silently, eyes huge with fear.

Galadriel was putting on her armour.

“You will fight?”

“Yes. I’ve fought them before, and I can fight them again. And I cannot in good conscience leave with the women and the children. These are Noldor, my own people. I feel a responsibility… I must stop this.” There was something in her eyes that Celeborn had never seen before, a cold light that almost frightened him.

He picked up his own breastplate, and she went to help him with the buckles.

“Why not just  _give_ them the Silmaril?” he burst out suddenly. “It has brought nothing but death and destruction to Doriath.”

She gave him a long look. Again there was steel in her voice when she spoke. “I cannot speak for Dior. But for myself…” she paused. “Findaráto died on the quest to get it. The Silmaril is soaked in my brother’s blood. Every time I look at it, I can only think of the teeth of the wolf at his throat, and I will not have it that his blood was spilled only for the gain of the sons of Fëanor. And anyway, it belongs to Dior now, and Thingol’s blood stains it too. Dior will not give it up. He will not allow everything that has happened to his people - all the deaths - to have been for nothing. And neither will I.”

“That’s blind Noldorin pride talking and you know it. More people will die, Altáriel.”

For a moment he saw pain in her eyes, but also anger, something fierce and violent and frightening. Then she sighed, and embraced him, holding him to her as if clinging for life.

“I know” she whispered, and her voice was brittle. “Please don’t hate me. Am I any better than them? I want to be… but I need to fight, I need to fight them so that I don’t become them. Do you understand?” There was desperation in her voice now.

Celeborn bit his lip, thinking this over. “Maybe you could try to reason with them? They may listen to you, of all people.”

She laughed, a little harshly. “Me? They would not listen to me. It is the Oath that drives them, and they will not listen to reason, not from me or from anyone. I’ve seen this before, I’ve seen them destroy my mother’s people. And now they have lost their father, and their brother, and their homes and allies, and the Oath is all they have left. The Oath and each other and their guilt, if they even feel any. They are more dangerous than ever, and they will never stop, not until every single one of us is dead and they have the Silmaril, dripping with blood, in their grasp. No. We must fight. It’s the only way we can save ourselves.”

Celeborn was silent. At that moment Dior appeared beside them.

“Galadriel, I want you with me. You know these people, their ways and their weaknesses. Celeborn, I am trusting you to go with Nimloth. She has the Silmaril, so she will be in great danger. She is going to try to escape into the forest with the children, while we hold the doors for as long as we can.”

“Let me fight beside you, Lord. Beside my wife. I can fight!”

Dior looked pained. “I know you can. That is why I am sending you with that which is most precious to me. We will meet you in the forest afterwards, if all goes to plan. If it does not…”

He did not continue, and both Celeborn and Galadriel were glad of it.

Celeborn was running down a stone staircase, into the deepest chambers of Menegroth, when he started to hear the sounds from above. The sound of clashing metal. The sound of cries, screams of pain. The sounds were magnified and oddly distorted, the countless caverns resonating like great drums. For a moment he wanted to go back, to fight by his own wife’s side, to slash and stab at anyone who tried to cause her harm. But he knew she would want him to obey Dior, trusted in his loyalty. But as he ran, down towards where he knew Nimloth was, he began to hear similar sounds coming from  _below_ too. Was it his imagination? An effect of the echoing caves? No, he was certain he could hear the sounds of fighting from below him. He quickened his pace, dread creeping over him, blood pounding in his ears. No, this wasn’t right, they were not meant to have got through so quickly. How had they got there first? What did it mean? That they had found another way through? Or that the defenders above were all dead? They  _could_ have stumbled on one of Menegroth’s many secret back passages, he knew. It was entirely possible.  _Or_ … he imagined Altáriel wounded, still fighting. She would never give in, he knew. She would fight until they killed her. With an effort, he pushed the thought to the back of his mind. He had a task to do, and he knew if he thought such things, he wouldn’t be able to do it. He must focus on that now.

The sight that greeted him in the lower hall at the bottom of the stairs was worse than he could have possibly imagined. Close to him was gathered a ragged group of children, cowering by the wall. The survivors. Their number was small, too small. He recognised Eluréd and Elurín amongst them, trying to comfort the others. There were people fighting, people from both sides dead and dying. On the far side of the hall was Nimloth. She had sunk to her knees, a borrowed sword in her hand pointing defiantly, but uselessly, at the tall figure in front of her. Her pale hair was stained with bright blood, spilling down freely from the wound on her forehead and chest and dripping onto the ground from the long silver tendrils. Directly behind her was Elwing, her small hands clutching something bright. The Silmaril. The girl’s face was a mask of horror as she watched the towering armoured figure raise his sword to deliver the blow that would kill her mother. He put on a spurt of speed, forcing his legs into motion. But he was too far away, he knew with sickening certainty, he could not make it in time. The sword came down, the sound sickening. Nimloth made no sound herself, but simply sank to the floor, blood pooling on the flagstones. Elwing was screaming, a tearing, wrenching sound filled with immeasurable pain that seemed to go on and on, echoing in the vast hall. He seized her hand, his sword in his other hand slashing at any who tried to attack them, with a sudden burst of wild battle-fury. But the battle was mostly over now. Somehow they had beaten him here, he had been too late… no, not too late. He could still save Elwing, and as many of the other children as he could. He dragged her by the hand towards the exit, forcing her to look away from where her mother’s body lay. He ushered the children out of the door hurriedly. But something was wrong. Where were Eluréd and Elurín? He wavered, scanning the room for them. There was still fighting going on… had they been caught up in it? Or captured? He could see no sign of either of them. Should he stay, try to look for them? Abandon Elwing and the others? In a moment, he had made the decision. They would go. He could still save the other children, if they left right now. He had the feeling that time was running out, and may well have run out already.

He closed the door behind them on the horrible scene in the hall. What would these children’s futures hold, he wondered. Even if they escaped, what then? Altáriel would know. But she was not here, and he may never see her again. He could not imagine a future for himself without her, and didn’t want to try. They ran down the passage. It was getting darker as they reached the less frequented corridors, deep under the ground. Fëanorian lights had never been used in Menegroth, (although he had one of his own that Altáriel had given him, in secret) and the torches on the walls were growing further apart as they neared the lower levels. He did not know the layout of these levels well, and it would be all to easy for them to become lost in this poorly-lit labyrinth. Somewhere here, he knew, was the stair, the secret back entrance that would take them up and out into the forest. He slowed a little, tense with worry as some of the younger children began to fall behind. Elwing’s face was set, streaked with tears, but full of determination. She still held the Silmaril in both hands, her small knuckles white as she clung to the jewel with all her strength.

It was with relief that he found the stair, but with trepidation that led the children out into the dark forest. It was snowing, soft feathery flakes forming a quiet blanket on the ground that seemed to make a mockery of the nightmarish scenes playing out in the stone fortress below. The biting cold and the scent of the forest in winter was a shock after the heat inside, where the air had been humid and thick with the smell of blood. He started with alarm as he spotted a light in the darkness, a torch… but then he felt a flood of relief when he heard familiar voices. These were their own people. He made for the group, shepherding the children through the deep snow. Hardly any of them were dressed for winter, and they were wet and shivering by the time they caught up with the group. So few. The survivors had a haggard look, their eyes hollow. Some were wounded. He scanned the group for familiar faces, for the one face he loved more than anything else, more than life itself, willing her to be there. But Altáriel was not there, he realised with a sickening jolt.  _She may still be alive,_  the reasonable part of him said.  _She may come at any moment. Wait._ But his mind was tearing itself to pieces as it formed horrible pictures, endless possible variations on her suffering, dying.

They had to move quickly, to put as much distance between themselves and Menegroth as they could, if they were to live. It was hard going in the deep snow. Children and the wounded were carried, the muffled cries of the dying sounding strangely flat in the snowy woods. All were painfully aware that the danger was still very real and present. Celeborn understood this, but the further they got from Menegroth, he knew, the less chance there was that she would find them. The hours of trudging through snow, chilled beyond shivering, felt like days as the fear ate away at all of their minds. Gradually more scattered survivors joined them.

Finally, there she was. She stepped into the circle of torchlight, exhausted, bloodied, and shivering, but alive and relatively unharmed. Celeborn was speechless with relief. All he could do was go to her, clasp her frozen fingers in his own, and kiss her, tears running freely down both their faces. But there was little time for greetings. They had to keep moving. The news of Dior’s death spread, the blow that some had expected and all had feared. They were a leaderless people now, a ragged band of refugees with nowhere to go and little hope. And yet somehow they would survive, because they must. Finally Celeborn asked Galadriel a question that he had been avoiding, one that had been troubling him for the whole journey.

“Do you know… what happened to Eluréd and Elurín?”

She simply stared at him, red-rimmed eyes filling again with tears, and shook her head. Of course. So many were unaccounted for. But he shuddered at the grim thoughts crowding in at him again, this time visions of what may have become of the twins.  _No. No more of those thoughts. Think of those who survived._

“We should make a safe place, Altáriel. I mean, a place where our people will be safe. Is that even possible?” He wondered if it made sense. He barely knew what he was saying, just as long as he was saying  _something_ , anything to keep the darkness and the cold and the enemies at bay.

“Yes” she said simply. “But I think nowhere will be safe, not for a very long time. Not until all the world is different, at least. Maybe never. But if we can, then one day we will. You and I.”

They turned their faces forwards, chilled hands brushing against each other as they marched through the snow. The light of Elwing’s Silmaril gleamed palely in the pre-dawn forest gloom, bobbing up and down as she was carried, fast asleep, by someone at the head of the group. That was what they were following, that point of light. That was what it had all been for. And as the sky above the trees began to brighten into morning, each of the survivors began to wonder to what fate it would lead them.


End file.
